


The Check-Up

by the_sock_index



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Doctor!John, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Light Medfet, M/M, Sickfic, Woobie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sick and doesn't take it particularly well; Doctor John is there to help and cop a feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Check-Up

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from sherlockbbcfic: "Med!fet, but in a cuddly way. Like, Sherlock has the sniffles, and John puts on a lab coat and pats Sherlock's bottom while taking his temperature anally. And after he gives him the complimentary lollipop, he let's Sherlock listen to his heartbeat with his stethoscope until he falls asleep."

It was a well-known and well-documented fact that Sherlock was rarely ill; what was less well-known and well-documented was that, when Sherlock _was_ ill, he became almost childlike, regressing in the face of something that sapped him of his energy, his drive, and his legendary mental acuity.

John discovered this, much to his surprise, nearly a year into sharing a flat with the man.

He’d been incredibly busy at work that day, as they were down a doctor and it was cold and flu season. The waiting room was full to the brim with sick people coughing, sneezing, sniffling, and—in the case of some of the children—crying. He’d felt hassled and flustered all day and that situation wasn’t helped by the near constant text messages he was getting from Sherlock, which seemed to indicate that the man was dying and needed immediate medical care. John suspected he was exaggerating, but he couldn’t be sure and, besides, it didn’t stop his imagination from dredging up a whole host of nightmarish scenarios.

He could be forgiven, then, for rushing out of the surgery as soon as his shift was up—so quickly he’d forgot he still had on his lab coat with the multitude of lollipops he used to distract the children he had to see. His one concession to the parents was that they were the soothing kind, designed to quiet coughs and alleviate congestion. Some of the parents gave him long-suffering looks at the thought of the sugar involved, but he felt that everyone was happier overall if he was able to treat more or less complacent children.

Sherlock, though technically not a child, was certainly acting like one when John got back to the flat. More to the truth, John burst through the door and raced up the stairs to check on him, only to find him in the grip of what was—at most—a moderate cold. John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose to stop himself from yelling at Sherlock for the misleading texts when it was obvious that the consulting detective was miserable.

He was curled into a ball on the sofa, shivering under a blanket, and looked completely miserable. “John,” he whimpered—really, almost whinged—“where’ve you been?”

“I was at work, Sherlock, you knew that.” John was, frankly, astounded that Sherlock would bother to ask a question that he obviously knew the answer to.

Sherlock sniffled and coughed pathetically. “But I texted you _hours_ ago to come home. I’m sick.”

John just stared at him, then thought, _Right. A child_. Well, if Sherlock was going to act like one then John was going to treat him like one.

“What symptoms do you have?” he asked as he carefully hung his coat up. He noticed he still had on his lab coat and almost took that off as well, but if he was going to treat Sherlock as just another sick patient, he reasoned that he might as well leave it on.

“My nose keeps running,” he whinged and demonstrated with a particularly loud sniff, “and my throat hurts, I can’t stop shivering, and I keep coughing.” He coughed, loudly. “And it hurts to breathe,” he finished, a bit breathlessly.

John turned back to him and bit his lip to keep from sighing again. “All right. Here,” he walked over to Sherlock and handed him one of the lollipops. “Sit up and suck on that for a moment while I go get my kit.”

It was strange to see Sherlock so complacent and willingly following orders. John didn’t allow himself to dwell on that thought as he moved upstairs to retrieve his medical kit from underneath his bed. Well, not too much, anyway. Instead, he made his way back downstairs and started to set up. He turned to Sherlock, and promptly forgot what he was going to say at the sight before him:Sherlock, eyes closed in bliss, happily sucking at the lolly. John stared at his orange-stained tongue swirling around the top and sliding back into his mouth, at the way his cheeks hollowed, before he clamped down on any thoughts about Sherlock’s tongue in general, or Sherlock’s tongue wrapped around anything in particular.

He was just treating a patient, who also happened to be his flatmate. Who _also_ happened to have a rather enthusiastic and dexterous…

Just a patient.

He resolutely moved over to the sofa and set his kit down, opening it up to rummage through it for what he needed. Upon spotting the gloves, he pulled them out and snapped one after the other onto his hands before retrieving a light, which he left on top of the kit. Next he reached in for a tongue depressor and turned to Sherlock. "Okay, Sherlock, look at me," he said, using one hand to cup Sherlock’s chin and tilt his head upward, his thumb and fingers gently caressing his jaw and throat. “I need to look at your throat first. Can you open up and say, ‘Aaaah’ for me?”

Sherlock nodded and let the lolly slip from his lips before obediently opening them and saying, “Aaaah.”

John pressed Sherlock's tongue down with the depressor, and then leant in close. The light in their flat wasn’t good enough for him to see as well as he'd like, so he removed his hand from Sherlock’s chin to grab the light he’d left ready for himself.

“Hmm,” he said, thoughtfully, then removed the depressor and threw it away. He turned back to face Sherlock and ran his fingers and thumbs gently over the sides of Sherlock’s neck and underneath and along his jaw to right behind his ears. “Does this hurt?”

Sherlock shook his head and his tongue darted out to swipe at his lolly. John removed his hands. “Your tonsils look normal and your lymph nodes are only slightly swollen, so I think we can rule out any kind of strep.”

John stripped off his gloves and laid a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. He frowned slightly. “You do seem a bit warm. Are you cold right now?”

Sherlock nodded and stuck his lolly back in his mouth, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked on it. John bit his lip and his hand slid into Sherlock’s hair briefly, ruffling the curls. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.

“Hmm.”

Sherlock removed the lolly to cough and sniffle, so John handed him a tissue from his kit. “All right. I need to hear your breathing. Can you remove your shirt for me?”

Sherlock nodded again and slid his dressing gown off his shoulders, then reached down and pulled his shirt over his head. John found himself transfixed by the sight of Sherlock’s naked, pale chest—more toned than he’d expected—and then cleared his throat when Sherlock put the lolly back in his mouth. John retrieved his stethoscope and breathed on it to warm it before resting his right hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. He then allowed his fingers to relax against the smooth, slightly-too-hot skin, rubbing almost absentmindedly as he carefully applied the stethoscope to Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock inhaled sharply in response and John’s thumb drifted across his collarbone, his fingers brushing the top of his shoulderblade. “Sorry,” he said soothingly.

Sherlock relaxed after a moment and nodded, still licking and sucking on the lolly. John tried not to stare. “Breathe deeply in and out for me,” he said quietly and Sherlock followed his direction without complaint, taking a deep breath in and then exhaling it slowly. John had Sherlock repeat this a few times while he listened at different spots on Sherlock’s back and chest. He could tell that Sherlock was trying very hard not to cough and he could hear the phlegm in his lungs quite clearly.

“The congestion’s not too bad,” he said, after the fourth such request. “But you’re going to have to take some medicine for it,” he added.

Sherlock pouted, but didn’t complain. John put the stethoscope down and looked at Sherlock. “I’m going to need to take your temperature to see if you’ve got a fever.” He paused and his eyes drifted over to his kit, to the thermometer he kept in it. The thought of using it…

He shivered, but kept his voice steady. “I’m afraid all I have is a rectal thermometer, so I’ll need you to get completely undressed, okay?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, biting his lip uncertainly. “Do I have to?”

John considered this. “No, but it really will help me help you get better…”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed.

John smiled at him. “Go ahead and get undressed while I get some medicine for you. I’ll be in the kitchen. You can wrap yourself up in this blanket and call to me when you're ready,” he said, grabbing the blanket from where it was draped over the back of the sofa. He sent Sherlock an encouraging smile and then went into the kitchen to get the paracetamol and a glass of water.

“John?” Sherlock called to him a few minutes later.

“Are you ready?” John asked.

“Yes,” he replied, with a hint of uncertainty and a sniffle.

John moved back into the sitting room and saw that Sherlock was on the sofa, hunched up under the blanket. John walked over to him and handed him the glass of water and the medicine. To his surprise, Sherlock took them without complaint. “Take those. It'll help with fever and any pain.”

Sherlock nodded and then placed the tablets on his tongue while John rummaged through his kit to retrieve the thermometer, one latex glove, and a tube of petroleum jelly. Then he sat next to Sherlock and placed a light hand on his knee. “Okay, Sherlock, what I want you to do is to lie down on your stomach right here,” he said, indicating his lap. “You can leave the blanket on while you lay down, all right?” Sherlock nodded, and John continued, “Then I’m going to remove the blanket. You’ll hear me put on my gloves and then you’re going to feel something cold and hard. Just stay relaxed because it shouldn’t hurt, it’s just going to feel weird, okay?”

His fingers rubbed soothing circles into the skin above Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock hesitated a moment and then nodded, and John smiled at him as he slid forward on the sofa. John then looked over at Sherlock and guided him to lie across his lap, helping situate Sherlock so that his arse was right near John’s hands.

Sherlock was shaking, John could tell, so he reached out and ran a soothing hand along his spine and he could feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock, even through the blanket. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered, carefully removing the blanket until Sherlock was naked before his eyes. John bit down on his lip and closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep, steadying breath and opened them again. He reached forward over Sherlock and picked up the gloves, snapping them on. He reached forward again and picked up the rectal thermometer and the jelly. He shook the thermometer out to make sure it read below 36 degrees and then squeezed the jelly onto the fingers of his right hand and generously lubricated the end. He held the thermometer steady in his left hand and placed his right on Sherlock’s lower back. The jelly still on his fingers made them glide over Sherlock’s skin and he drew lazy circles and patterns into the skin around his hips, barely brushing the top of his buttocks. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered uncertainly, his voice quivering slightly.

“It’s going to be fine,” John murmured soothingly, carefully moving his hand from Sherlock’s back to his arse, gently parting the cheeks so that he could see what he was doing. He placed the thermometer at the puckered entrance and rubbed it slightly, allowing Sherlock to become accustomed to the temperature and the feel of it.

One of his fingers traced the tight ring of muscle for a moment, and then he moved his hand away and pressed forward gently with the thermometer. Sherlock whimpered quietly—so quietly that John felt more than heard it—and he ruthlessly tried to suppress his body’s reaction. He very nearly succeeded, only the muscles in his stomach contracting sharply in response and forcing out a harsh exhale. He took his time pressing the glass tube into Sherlock’s body, doing his best to ignore the sounds Sherlock was making—an audible hitch in his breathing, a soft noise at the back of his throat. Then, when the thermometer was about an inch deep, he stopped and held it steady, his other hand resting lightly on Sherlock’s arse, patting gently every so often.

After two minutes, he withdrew the thermometer and took a look at the reading. Almost 38 degrees. That explained why Sherlock was so cold and was radiating heat like a furnace. “You have quite the fever, Sherlock,” he said, leaning forward to put the thermometer down and remove his gloves. As soon as Sherlock was resting, he’d disinfect the thermometer. In the mean time, he wrapped the blanket around his flatmate and patted him lightly on the arse, his hand lingering for a brief moment. Then he wrapped his arms around Sherlock to move him into a sitting position.

Sherlock’s face was flushed and he had an odd expression on his face, a pinched look that spoke of misery and almost something like disappointment. John placed a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, and then to his forehead, before sighing and standing. “Come on. You need rest and the only place you’re going to get that is in a bed.”

It was a measure of how truly ill Sherlock was that he didn’t fuss, but rather allowed John to place an arm around his waist and lead him over to his bedroom. John helped the taller man into bed—still sans clothes—and covered him with the sheets. “Wait right here. I’m going to get something to help with your chest.”

Sherlock nodded and John returned to the sitting room to grab a jar of ointment. He was back in Sherlock’s bedroom quickly and then he sat on the bed and opened the jar. “This should help relax the muscles in your chest and clear your nasal passage so you can breathe easier.”

Sherlock’s eyes were already sliding closed, so John rubbed some of the thick, strong-smelling ointment into his hands and then moved his hands over Sherlock’s chest and neck. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and his breathing hitched, but he otherwise stayed quiescent, as John rubbed the ointment over his neck and shoulders, and then down his chest towards the edge of his rib cage. He moved his hands soothingly, his thumb catching on a dusky nipple and his fingers sliding through the sparse hair on Sherlock’s chest and, once, on his lower stomach.

He lathered more ointment on his hands and splayed them over Sherlock’s chest, his palms moving in small circles and his fingers brushing Sherlock’s nipples and collarbones for a few moments before he moved his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and upper arms, rubbing the excess ointment over the muscles there. Sherlock’s face was still flushed slightly and his breathing was still catching slightly on every inhale, but his muscles were relaxed and his skin supple. John watched Sherlock’s face for a moment and, when he was sure that Sherlock was finally resting, he moved to stand. He’d barely done more than shift, though, when he felt Sherlock’s long, thin fingers clasping his wrist.

John looked at him questioningly. “Will you stay with me?” Sherlock rasped quietly. John thought about the clean-up that had to be done, and how he was still in his work clothes, but then he considered how bone-tired he was and how inviting Sherlock and Sherlock’s bed looked. He nodded, and Sherlock shifted a bit to give him space to lie down.

Once John settled, Sherlock curled around him, arm around John’s chest and his head resting over John’s heart, and relaxed into sleep. John felt the pull towards sleep himself and allowed himself to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s waist, his hand resting on his hip, fingers brushing low on his pelvic bone, and he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s temple. His eyes slid shut and he slid into sleep.


End file.
